Gold, Frankincense, and Murder
by cjnwriter
Summary: It's time again for Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge! My optimistic hope is to read everyone's entries this year, so wish me luck as we enter this season of reading, writing, detectives, and Christmas cheer!
1. A Detective's Dream

**December 1: "Fantasy" (from Domina Temporis)**

* * *

Holmes, Lestrade and I were poring over the floorplan of a nearby bank in anticipation of the bank robbery we would be preventing a few hours later that night. It was a cold and wet evening, that December the twenty-third, and Lestrade and I (at least) would have much preferred to be in our homes by a warm fire with warm beds to look forward to than in Lestrade's cramped office, with higher chances of injury in a scuffle with bank robbers than of getting a decent amount of sleep. I cannot speak for Holmes.

Lestrade passed a weary hand over his eyes. "If only the criminal classes would spend a few days around Christmas at some more honest trade."

I nodded. "And we could do without the diseases, too."

"Another pneumonia outbreak?" he asked.

I nodded. I had not had a proper night's sleep in two weeks, between my cases and Holmes'. "In fact," I added, "I would not object to all illnesses vanishing and forcing me into an early retirement."

"Aye," said Lestrade, "and the criminals too. I'm sure I'd find something to do with myself, were there no crime to prevent or punish."

Constable Hopkins knocked on the door frame. "You needed me, Inspector?"

Lestrade nodded, and gestured for him to come in. "Apologies for the short notice; we only learned of the Harrison gang's plans for tonight half an hour ago. But tell me, Hopkins, what would you do if all of the criminals tomorrow decided to retire or turn to honest work?"

The constable frowned for a moment. "Well, I've always wanted to be a police inspector, but when I was very young, I thought of being a sailor and seeing the world. Perhaps it would be a deal safer, without any crime."

"Quite so," I said. "And you, Lestrade? How would you apply yourself?"

The Inspector shrugged. "I'd spend a deal more time with my children, to start, and beyond that…well, perhaps I'd design buildings or bridges or some such thing. I must confess I'm fascinated by architecture and engineering. And you, Watson?"

"Well, if both diseases and criminals were out of the picture, I suppose I would spend a good deal more time writing. What I would write, I'm not certain, but write I would."

I glanced to Holmes, who fixed me with an impatient frown.

"Come now, gentlemen," he said, gesturing to the diagrams on Lestrade's desk. "We have work to do. There is no use indulging in such fantasy."

Lestrade shrugged. "Well, there is a new century to begin soon. Who's to say that it won't bring an end to crime and disease?"

Holmes gave a sharp breath through his nostrils, and shook his head. He began pacing the length of the small office. "Nonsense, Inspector. I'm afraid I cannot share in your optimism. Crime and disease have been with our species as far back as we have record, and we would first need to find some solution to poverty before we could have any hope of solving society's other maladies. No, no, I'm afraid the best we can do is treat the symptoms in these cases, caring for the poor and the ill, bringing criminals to justice…" He trailed off, staring out the window.

"Well," said Lestrade, "just pretending for a moment that it were possible, what would you do suppose you would do with yourself?"

Holmes thought for a moment, then replied, "I think I would move to the countryside…and keep bees."


	2. A Strange Parcel

**December 2: "One of the occupants of 221B occupants receives a strange parcel." (from W. Y. Traveller)**

 **A/N: Apologies for the length, but no apologies for the content. :P**

* * *

"Holmes, there's a package for you." Watson's voice carried across the flat and into the detective's bedroom.

"Open it, would you, Watson?" Holmes replied. He was more than a little preoccupied with his chemical analysis. He heard his flat-mate sigh, and took that as agreement.

A moment later, he heard cursing, and a flustered Watson appeared in his doorway.

"Holmes, it's happened again."

Watson's countenance was grave. He held the opened package aloft, and Holmes saw it:

A fruitcake.

"Have no fear, my dear fellow," said Holmes after a pause. "We shall return the favor to dear Inspector Lestrade post haste."


	3. A Thank-You

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! I haven't read yesterday's yet, since Mondays are crazy, but all are appreciated. :)**

 **Prompt will be at the end, so I can take advantage of a** ** _teeny_** **bit of suspense!**

* * *

There was a knock at the door, and moments later, the sound of Mrs. Hudson's bustling followed by two sets of footsteps climbing the seventeen stairs.

"A gentleman to see you," she said.

Holmes glanced up from his newspaper and Watson rose to greet the man. He was a handsome man with clear-cut features, a broad frame, and a ruddy complexion.

"I suppose you hardly recognize me," he said.

Watson glanced to Holmes, then shook his head. "No indeed. But please, sit down."

The gentleman sat.

Holmes smiled. "Watson, you have never had the pleasure of meeting Colonel Emsworth, as his case occurred after you had already moved out of these rooms, but I believe I shared with you the account you wrote of it."

"Emsworth…ah!" Watson exclaimed. "'The Blanched Soldier,' you titled it, did you not?"

"Indeed," Holmes replied, retrieving a pipe from a nearby table.

"I have come to thank you again in person, Mr. Holmes," said Emsworth, fidgeting with the hat in his hands. "I fear I was in such a state of shock and joy when I learned that my condition was quite curable, and not leprosy as we had all feared, that I never thanked you properly."

"I am glad to have been of assistance," said Holmes, lighting his pipe. "You appear a deal healthier than when we last met."

"I am, certainly," replied Emsworth. "I understand from Jimmie—James Dodd, that is—that you did not accept payment from him for your assistance," he continued, pulling out his pocketbook, "and I thought I should—"

"No, no," Holmes replied, his pipe clenched between his teeth. He removed it and continued, "Though your case was elementary, there were some points of interest and novelty about it. And I find myself comfortably enough off that I do not always charge fees." He gestured vaguely around the sitting room, which was indeed well-furnished.

"Well, regardless, thank you," replied Emsworth again, "for everything."

* * *

 **December 3: "The 'Blanched Soldier' pays Holmes a thank you." (Ennui Enigma)**


	4. The Punjabi Toad

**A/N: Shoutout to my boyfriend for all of his ideas and inspiration for this one!**

 **December 4: "A toad? At this time of year?" (from Stutley Constable)**

* * *

In a secluded back room of the British Museum, there was a small statue with piercing eyes of carefully carved obsidian depicting a toad the size of a large fist. It was one of those artifacts that thousands walked past without ever really noticing. Noticed or not, there sat Punjabi Toad upon a small pedestal with an even smaller plaque reading:

 _"Punjabi Toad." Grey stone, obsidian embellishments. Punjab, India, circa. 1100 A.D. Legend says it carries the curse of the five rivers within its warts. Permanent collection._

Despite its humble appearance, the Toad was worth a deal of money due to its colorful history and being the only one of its kind, and so, when it was stolen, my dear friend Sherlock Holmes was called for immediately. Normally, such a case of museum theft would have, at best, received a swift rejection from a blasé Holmes, in favor of lounging upon the settee or pursuing some other case. But there was one point of interest:

* * *

"It was replaced with a _live_ toad, you said?" Holmes glanced between Lestrade and the museum employee he was questioning.

"Indeed," Lestrade replied. "It's currently in the safekeeping of a constable, in case it's needed for evidence."

"And this toad statue was the only item taken?"

"Yes," replied the museum employee. He, along with Holmes, myself, and Inspector Lestrade were the sole occupants of the small room where the Toad had lately been stolen. "But there are some who believe that it was not taken at all."

"No?" Holmes quirked an eyebrow.

The man leaned forward, his voice hushed. "No indeed. Rather, they say that the Curse of the Five Rivers has been invoked, bringing the statue to life."

"The Curse of the Five Rivers?" I repeated.

He nodded gravely. "Many learned Indian mystics say that once the spirit that dwells in the toad awakens, it will not rest until it claims five lives—"

"Yes, yes, thank you for your time," said Holmes curtly.

The man stopped short, blinked in confusion for a moment, and then took his leave.

"You could at least attempt some manners," said Lestrade irritably.

Holmes said nothing, but dropped to his knees with his magnifying glass.

I exchanged a sympathetic look with the Inspector.

"Still, it's a strange thing, isn't it?" Lestrade said. "A toad—at this time of year?"

"Quite so," Holmes replied, examining the empty pedestal with his magnifying glass. "They hibernate, you know."

"Yes, I did take a biology class back in my schoolboy days, Mr. Holmes," replied Lestrade dryly.

Holmes rose to his full height. "Then surely, dear Inspector, you know what it is that brings toads and such creatures back out of their hibernation?"

Lestrade frowned. "Well…it has been some time since I learned about it."

"Warmth, Lestrade." My friend brandished his magnifying glass at the Scotland Yarder. "The introduction of warmth to their surroundings."

"Ah," said he.

"That does make sense," I replied. "That's how they know to wake in the springtime."

"Quite so," said Holmes.

Lestrade shook his head. "But what has that to do with this theft?"

"Observe the footprints," said Holmes.

"The toad's footprints?" asked Lestrade. "Come now, you don't really believe this nonsense that the statue came to life and became a toad. Surely the placement of the toad was a prank, and the toad's footprints are meaningless."

Holmes shook his head. "I do not put stock in such things as curses and statues coming to life. But do you see how the footprints originated in this corner of the room, near the only flagstone tile in this room which is chipped?"

"Now that you mention it…"

I took the lead approaching the chipped flagstone. "You suppose it has been moved?"

Holmes nodded, and he and I carefully lifted it, revealing a tunnel beneath.

"My goodness," said Lestrade. "Someone dug a tunnel to the Museum!"

"We are near an outside wall," I noted. There were no windows in this room, but I had noticed one in the room adjacent.

"I imagine our amphibious interloper was hibernating just a few feet from the outer wall, and the digging of this tunnel disturbed the winter temperature of its surroundings enough for it to awake, and follow the warmth to this very spot. The fact that it founds its way onto the pedestal is, I think, an uncanny coincidence."

"Uncanny indeed," replied Lestrade.

The afternoon's investigation revealed that the tunnel led to an abandoned house not far from the Museum, and from there, Holmes gathered enough clues to track down the men involved in the heist, but the Toad itself was nowhere to be found. Holmes believed that information would come out at the trial, but all five members of the heist gang died just days beforehand, some under more dubious circumstances than others.

The Punjabi Toad has never been seen since.

Holmes says I am too superstitious, and chalks all of it up to "uncanny coincidence" but I confess, the thought of this case still sends shivers down my spine. Perhaps it is best that the whereabouts of the Punjabi Toad remain a mystery, its dark and dubious memory to be lost forever.


	5. Lost my keys!

**December 5: "Lost keys" (from Winter Winks 221)**

 **A/N: Today we've got a mish-mosh of crack-fic, actual fic, song, poetry,** **and prose, so buckle up!**

* * *

Dashing through the snow;

I lost my keys today.

Where the hell'd they go

In London, cold and grey?

~0~

I checked my practice and

The rooms at 221,

Where else can I retrace my steps?

Good Lord, this isn't fun!

~0~

Oh, lost my keys! Lost my keys!

Mary is away,

I have no way of going home

What shall I do?! Wahey!

* * *

Exhausted, cold, and utterly dejected, I hailed a cab to take me back to 221b, in hopes that my old friend would take me in for the night.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door. "Still no sign of your keys, Doctor?" she asked.

I shook my head. "I was hoping Holmes would allow me to impose for the night."

"Well," said she, "if he says 'no,' I shall talk some sense into him. With a frying pan, if I must."

I managed a weary smile, and headed up the seventeen stairs.

"Ah! Good evening, dear chap," said Holmes when I entered. He seemed in an unusually good mood. "Back again, so soon? You only just called this morning."

"I've lost my keys," I said. "I came round earlier, and Mrs. Hudson looked everywhere, but they were nowhere to be found. I was wondering if I might stay the n—"

With a flourish, Homes had produced my keys from the pocket of his dressing gown.

I let loose a string of expletives which I will not here reproduce, and grabbed them from his hand.

"You are welcome to stay the night," said Holmes. "It is quite late, now after all. And you do not work tomorrow, if I recall correctly."

"You are correct," I said through gritted teeth, collapsing into a chair. "But you might have simply invited me to stay tonight, you know. No need for such foolishness."

Holmes only shrugged, picked up his violin, and began to play one of my favorite pieces. Much as he had given me reason to, I could not stay angry with him.


	6. Good Bees

**December 6: "After Sherlock dies, another character has to tell his bees that he's gone." (from zanganito)**

 **A/N: I felt all the feelings, folks. Form is a 221b drabble.**

* * *

Every day, sometime between six and ten in the morning, Sherlock Holmes would check on his bees to ensure that no pests were bothering or harming them, and subsequently to study and admire them. If he knew he would be away for more than a day, he would put Flanner, the nearest neighbor willing, in charge of the task. Flanner was a bachelor, about twenty years Holmes' junior, and similarly unsociable. The two got along well.

This continued for many years, and the bees were confused (being more intelligent creatures than they are often given credit) when two days had passed with no such visits. The company of Holmes was pleasant, and associated with sugar-water, if the bees were not receiving enough nutrients from the flowers in the region, and with the removal of such things as wasps, ants, and mites from their pleasant hive environment. The bees liked Flanner well enough, and when he at last visited them, there was relief in the hive.

"Sorry little chaps," Flanner said softly, as much to himself as to the bees. "It seems I shall be caring for you now."

And so he did, and did well. He even methodically gathered Holmes' papers to posthumously publish a second edition of his Practical Handbook of Bee Culture. They were, after all, good bees.


	7. Bad Bees

**A/N: *skids into the frame, Breakfast Club style, with a package of Hawaiian rolls in one hand and a pile of study materials in the other* I'm back!**

 **December 7: "One of Watson's patients is allergic to bees." (from zanganito)**

* * *

It was noon on a Friday, and Watson's practice was buzzing with activity. The good doctor was exhausted and harried, and so it was with a sinking heart that he saw Holmes arrive in his waiting room; he did not have time or energy to spare assisting his friend in a case.

"Holmes—" Watson began.

"No case," interrupted Holmes. "I wished to show you a fascinating purchase I made earlier today." He pulled out a wooden and glass box, the inside of which was buzzing (quite literally) with even more activity than his practice.

"Good heavens," said Watson, stepping back in alarm, "what if they get loose?"

"Nonsense," Holmes replied, "It is quite secure."

Watson looked rather less than convinced. "But Holmes, why purchase such a thing in the first place? You live in London; hardly a place for keeping bees."

"Excuse me, Doctor," came a nervous voice from behind Watson.

The two men turned to look.

"I must inform you I am terribly allergic to bees, and must insist that this man leave, or I shall take my business elsewhere."

Watson gave Holmes a pleading look.

Holmes sighed, but did as he was bid. Perhaps on some other occasion Watson would come to appreciate the marvelous little creatures.

As he departed, Holmes could hear the man muttering, "blasted bees."

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, so they're not _bad_ bees, I just liked that chapter title in light of the previous one. Also, Holmes getting an observation hive while living in London was definitely inspired by (stolen from?)** **zanganito's December 1 & 2 responses.**


	8. Something is Burning

**December 8: "Fire" (from sirensbane)**

* * *

Something was burning. That much was certain.

Mrs. Hudson leapt from her bed in alarm, and dashed into the kitchen barefoot, in only her nightclothes. Had she had time to stop and reflect, she probably would have said she expected to see Sylvia, the new maid, attempting to salvage some horrid culinary mistake, or perhaps Holmes, taking over the kitchen (despite her clear forbidding) for some experiment or other, or perhaps even a sinister figure attempting to burn down all of 221 Baker Street as revenge upon Holmes.

But what she saw was not any of those things.

It was Dr. Watson, pulling something hastily from the oven, batting at the flames with an oven-mitted hand as smoke filled the kitchen.

Shocked and slightly embarrassed at the sight of Mrs. Hudson in a nightdress, Watson regained his composure and confessed, "I must apologize—I wanted to make something for Mary; it's her birthday today, and I had quite forgotten until I awoke suddenly at half past three and remembered, and at first I thought I would write something, and that went horribly, or I could purchase her something nice, but I am embarrassingly low on funds, and then I thought I could bake something, but it seems that this cake was a similar failure…" He set the blackened remains of the cake on the counter and sank into a chair.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, and shook her head. "You gave me quite the scare, doctor, but if you'll just let me get dressed, I can help you make Mary a proper cake. And if she asks," the landlady added, a twinkle in her eye, "it was entirely your doing."

The doctor's face lit up. "Thank you! I'll just clean up the mess I've made; I shan't ever be able to repay you—thank you so much!"

She returned to her room, chuckling as she dressed and readied herself. There was never a dull moment with these lodgers, but she wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

 **A/N: Virtual cookies for anyone who happened to spot the VeggieTales reference…**


	9. Gifts, At Long Last

**December 9: "Mycroft and Sherlock agree to purchase each other a gift." (from W. Y. Traveller)**

* * *

"Because, Holmes," said Watson, "Christmastime is about _giving_ , whether or not your brother gets you something in return."

Holmes sighed and shook his head. "Yes, yes, and all of that, but have you ever been in the position where you are given a gift by someone, and you do not have one prepared to give them in return? It has happened to me many times over the years."

I cannot imagine why, thought Watson dryly.

"It can be dreadfully awkward," Holmes continued. "Especially when the gift-giver is a woman. In fact, there was one occasion—"

"That's beside the point," said Watson. "But how about this? I visit your brother, and inform him that you intend to give him a Christmas gift for the first time in, what was it, sixteen years? And then it is up to him whether he reciprocates the gesture."

"Oh, I suppose," Holmes growled. "Though, this was not the sort of thing I thought I was agreeing to when I told you I owed you a favor."

Watson only smiled.

* * *

Mycroft was similarly flustered. "But why in heavens' name would he be giving me a gift? Does he intend to stir up some international trouble that he may need my assistance to soothe? Because in that case, I would have thought he would have been more forthright in telling me about it."

"No, not at all," Watson replied. "The fact is, he owed me a favor, and I informed him I wanted him to give gifts to you, Mrs. Hudson, and a couple of the Scotland Yard Inspectors this Christmas."

"Very kind of you, Doctor," said Mycroft. "I suppose I shall have to reciprocate?"

"Only if you wish to, of course," Watson replied.

* * *

And so it was that the Holmes brothers exchanged Christmas gifts for the first time in many years. It was a tradition they kept up, too, for the rest of their lives. Watson could never be sure if it was out of brotherly affection, or a fear of receiving a gift without having one at the ready to give in return, but he chose to believe the former.


	10. Haircut

**December 10: "Barber's shop" (from Winter Winks 221)**

 **A/N: I have no idea how barber's shops worked in the Victorian era, and did exactly no research, so this is inspired by the barbershop in my hometown, run by a man named Bill, whose name has always seemed to me to be the most appropriate name for a barber.**

* * *

"Oi dunno about this, Doctor," said Tom, the Irregular. "I'm very 'appy to work for Mr. 'Olmes, and all, but this seems loike more than Oi signed up for."

I smiled at patted him on the head. "If Holmes is to pass you boys off as respectable, school-going children, we need to clean all of you up a bit, and that means a haircut."

Tom's hair was white-blond and the particular sort of curly which pays no heed whatsoever to gravity. It was looking particularly light in hue today, having just been washed not half an hour prior. Mrs. Hudson was busy cutting the other boys' hair (there would be five boys involved in total), but she was too nervous to touch Tom's locks, informing us in no uncertain terms that "cutting curly hair is a talent in and of itself." So, Holmes sent me out with little Tom to have it done by a proper barber.

Tom gave a sigh of resignation. "Well, Oi s'pose lookin' a right respectable bloke won't be all bad."

"No indeed," I replied. "I think you will look quite the handsome lad."

He beamed, in spite of himself.

Soon we had arrived at the barber's shop Holmes and I frequented, a small establishment run by an old gentleman named Bill.

"Hello, Dr. Watson! Who's this little chap, then?" asked Bill with a smile.

"A family friend," I replied.

Tom gave a shy smile, removing his cap and setting his hair loose. "Tom," he said.

"A pleasure to meet you, Tom." He gestured for Tom to climb up into the chair, and put the barber's cape over the boy's lap and tied it behind his head. Tom looked a little nervous, so I gave him a reassuring nod before seating myself in a nearby chair.

"Just a trim, then?" asked Bill.

I nodded. "Just enough to tame those curls a little."

In no time, Bill had shorn enough of the hair that it lay at quite a respectable length.

"Oi look a proper bloomin' gentlemen, don't Oi?" Tom exclaimed, turning his head from side to side as he looked into the mirror.

"I should say so," replied Bill, with a smile.

Tom placed his cap back onto his head as I paid Bill, and we made our way back to Baker Street.


	11. Season of Giving

**December 11: "The season of giving" (from Domina Temporis)**

 **A/N: A BBC-verse fic, because I had a silly idea that didn't fit with Canon or the 22nd Century-verse. You'll see why.**

* * *

Christmastime at 221b was more than a little different than the season was in the houses nearly, and all over London. Entirely heedless of norms and traditions elsewhere, Sherlock had his own way of doing things.

"John, I'll be back in approximately forty-five minutes, but if anyone asks, I was here the whole time."

John looked up from his laptop and frowned. "Who might be asking?"

Sherlock put on his coat, but didn't answer.

"Is what you'll be doing legal?" asked John.

"Not quite," Sherlock replied.

"But for a good cause?" He pressed.

"Without a doubt."

John fixed him with a dubious gaze. "Would I agree with you on that?"

Sherlock gave a curt nod. "Yes, John."

"Good," said John. "Then you were here the whole time."

* * *

It was several days later when John read the news: Lestrade had solved a case of burglary perpetrated on a local politician, with the intent of using the stolen goods for blackmail.

John frowned as he looked again at the date and time the burglary took place.

"Sherlock," he said, "what were you up to the other day?" He pointed to the article on the second page of the paper.

Sherlock laughed. "Oh, that. I thought I would do our friend Lestrade a favor. I disguised myself and vacuumed the important rooms just half an hour before the perpetrator arrived. With the right carpet, it makes the footprints stand out so obviously that even Anderson could follow them."

John shook his head in disbelief. I have so many questions, he thought. "But Sherlock, if you knew exactly when and where this burglary was going to happen, why didn't you just stop it from happening?"

"It's the season of giving, John," said Sherlock with a smile. "And if I'd done that, Lestrade wouldn't have had the opportunity to solve this case and impress all of us with his superior set of investigatory skills."

* * *

 **A/N: I guess this is what happens when I brainstorm while vacuuming my dorm room!**


	12. The Best of Friends

**December 12: "Riley Jenkins, the best of friends" (from Book girl fan)**

 **A/N: I had no idea what to do with this prompt, so my first reaction was to Google it,** **and I found a video of a guy named Riley Jenkins doing an impressive Elvis impersonation at age fourteen. This is entirely irrelevant to today's brief fic.**

 **Also, Watson's Scottish heritage referenced here is the result of a story I read some time ago: "A Brother Noble" by KCS and Protector of the Gray Fortress.**

* * *

It was a warm summer day in 1887, and Holmes was sorting through the post.

"Strange—this one is addressed to both of us," said he, holding up a mid-sized, white envelope. "The name is unfamiliar to me."

He held it out to me and I took it. Riley Jenkins, the return address read.

"Ah! Riley Jenkins!" I exclaimed, after a moment's thought. "It has been a very long time."

Riley Jenkins was an old school chum of mine and was, to my memory, one of the only boys to be kind to me in my first year of school in England. My father, brother, and I moved from our home in Scotland not long after the death of my mother. But in the way these things often go, our paths diverged in our final years of school, and neither of us had made any effort to stay in touch. In fact, I must confess that by the time this tale takes place, I had all but forgotten about him, and certainly I could not picture what he looked like past the age of twelve or so.

"I suppose he wishes to ask for my services?" Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"Well, there is only one way to find out."


	13. What Is That Smell?

**December 13: "Tallow" (from zanganito)**

 **A/N: A little all-dialogue drabble this time, so I can catch up again! And once again, thank you to everyone who has reviewed. I have sent fewer individual messages this year than I usually do, but I am so, so grateful for all of you taking the time to read and review. Hope you're all enjoying this year's challenge as much as I am. :)**

* * *

"Holmes, what is that smell?"

"Tallow."

"Why are you melting tallow?"

"It is of the utmost importance to determine the exact composition of the candle wax drips at a crime scene."

"If you say so. But must you do it here?"

"I work best with my own equipment in my own home."

A sigh. "All right, Holmes."

"But I do apologize for the smell. You may open a window."

"It's December."

"Ah."

"Mhmm."

"But, perhaps I could interest you in a concert after dinner? I took the liberty of purchasing us both tickets."

"My dear fellow, I would be delighted."


	14. Basil Returns!

**December 14: "Cider" (from Wordweilder)**

 **A/N: Because it's about time I wrote another Great Mouse Detective crossover!**

* * *

"My thimbles are missing," said Mrs. Hudson as she entered our sitting room one evening. She set down the dinner tray rather more heavily than was her custom, and I must confess I gave a start. "Now," she continued, "I do not mean to accuse either of you of stealing, but I have looked high and low and cannot find them. If either of you gentlemen have any idea—"

"Apologies," said Holmes. "I have loaned them out to a couple of associates."

Mrs. Hudson halted mid-sentence, and deflated slightly, her brows knitted in confusion. "Loaned them out? To whom?"

"And for what purpose?" I added.

"Two fellows who had their rooms damaged rather seriously by a vindictive member of a criminal gang. They find themselves in rather a fix while they replace necessities such as dishes and clothes and such."

"And thimbles?" she pressed.

"In lieu of drinking vessels," Holmes replied.

We both stared.

"Oh, all right, I had better introduce you." He stood, and gestured for us to follow him into the sitting room. "Basil! Dawson! I should like to introduce you to my fellow-lodger and our landlady."

Moments later, two mice dressed in little gentleman's clothes scurried into our sitting room.

Mrs. Hudson gave a little shriek, and I stepped back in alarm.

"It is quite all right," said Holmes. "They share these rooms with us. Basil is a detective too, you know. Every now and then we assist each other in cases."

"Very pleased to meet you," said the shorter and rounder of the two, politely. I noticed that he sported a tiny mustache. "David Dawson, at your service, and this is Basil of Baker Street."

The other nodded curtly, hands clasped behind his back.

"How have the thimbles been working for you gentlemen?" asked Holmes. "Mrs. Hudson would like to know."

"Oh, quite nicely," Dawson replied. "Many thanks to you."

"Though," added Basil, "I am glad to report we should have a full set of dishes by this afternoon."

Our estimable landlady recovered more quickly than me. "I am happy to hear it," she said. "Would you gentlemen care for some cider? I have just made some up."

"That would be splendid," said Dawson, beaming, and Basil's ears perked up visibly.

Mrs. Hudson brought up the cider, and after an awkward moment of uncertainty regarding the best method to pour cider into a thimble, Holmes retrieved a dropper from his chemistry set, which did the job wonderfully. We had a pleasant chat while we drank our cider. They were wonderful fellows, once one got past the fact that they were mice.


	15. Stars

**December 15: "Holmes, Watson, and the stars above." (from Book girl fan)**

 **A/N: I was sorely tempted to riff on the camping joke, but decided on something a tad more serious. (But on the off chance you're not familiar with the joke, just Google "Sherlock Holmes camping joke" and it'll come right up.)**

* * *

It was a bitterly cold winter's evening in the north of Scotland, where pursuit of a suspect had taken us out of our beds and out of doors in the earliest hours of the morning. I had long since lost feeling in most of my extremities, and feared my breath had caused something like hoarfrost to form on my mustache, when we finally found our opponent, Mr. Adams.

Holmes and I brought him to the ground with a sort of combined tackle (not as elegant as Baritsu, but certainly as effective) and slipping a pair of cuffs on him, we made our slow trek back to the village, each of us with an arm linked through Adams' arms. My legs felt leaden and my old wound ached, but I endeavored to give no sign of this, as Holmes, recently injured himself, was faring at least as poorly. It was just when I thought we could go on no further when a carriage appeared over the next hill, driven by a policeman named Lewis, with whom we had been working.

"Ah! Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson!" cried the policeman, in a thick Scottish brogue. "I'm so glad to have found you, and Adams too."

"It is good to see you too," I replied.

"Get in, get in," he said. "It's too bad the clouds all rolled out this evening. The cold gets nigh unbearable on nights like this."

I nodded numbly. Holmes made no reply.

"Well, I'll get us back to the inn as swift as I can." He bundled Adams into the carriage.

Adams rode in the front so Lewis could keep an eye on him, while Holmes and I took the back. I was glad for the several thick blankets, though I made sure Holmes had the bulk of them.

"How is your arm?" I asked him.

"Well enough," he replied, but something about his tone made me doubt him. Still, there was nothing I could do here; it was the best I could do to keep him warm.

I settled back in my seat and looked upward. With no moon above, and no city lights to pollute the sky, the stars shone brightly overhead. I was reminded of lying out late at night as a child, staring up at the stars, marveling at their twinkling and how many shapes and pictures one could imagine with them. Oh, the stories my brother and I used to tell each other under those stars. Something of the same wonderstruck attitude came upon me now.

"It is beautiful," I said, almost involuntarily.

Holmes raised his eyes to the night sky.

For a moment, I expected him to say something about the distant stars existing far from his purview, but then I remembered that Holmes was, at heart, an artist, and when the right mood was upon him, all beauty was of interest to him.

"Yes," he replied softly. "It is."


	16. Warmth

**December 16: "A warming drink and a welcoming fire." (from Knightfury)**

 **A/N: I wrote the bulk of this while pretty cold myself, but that's just because of all the time I spent standing outside looking for the Wirtanen comet (didn't spot it, but the stars were lovely, as always).**

 **Holmes' POV.**

* * *

I shivered. It was a deucedly cold walk back to Baker Street, but in my single-mindedness and haste I had forgotten my pocketbook when I ran out of the flat that morning (and into a cab with Lestrade), and so now could not hail a cab. To make matters worse, a light drizzle was beginning to fall and I was in a less than savory neighborhood.

"Blimey, Mr. 'Olmes!"

I turned round in surprise; that was the voice of young Wiggins!

"You look awful cold, sir," he said. "Want ta step inside for a moment? Father's away, and my brothers surely won't mind."

I did not want to impose upon the boy, but I could see in his keen young eyes that he would insist. And I was, indeed, "awful cold".

He led me into the drafty apartment, which was indeed warmer (and dryer) than the street. I was so glad of the rise in temperature that I barely registered my brain making its observations and deductions about the place. "Thank you, Wiggins," I said, removing my gloves and holding my throbbing fingers as near to the flames as I dared. "This is a significant improvement."

The boy beamed.

I stayed for a few minutes more, and then took my leave, resuming my trek to Baker Street. It was still damp and miserable, but my fingers and my heart had been warmed by the kindness of my chief Irregular. At length, I arrived at the flat, and after peeling off a couple of damp layers of clothing, I put on my dressing gown and collapsed into my chair by the fire.

I was hardly aware of the glass of brandy in my hand until I was bringing it to my lips.

Watson stood near at hand with the bottle. "Drink up, old chap," he said.

And I did. Soon, I was sufficiently warmed inside and out, and I took myself to bed.


	17. Sir Henry's Letter

**December 17: "Christmas at Baskerville Hall" (From Madam'zelleG)**

 **A/N: I wrote this by candlelight, for no reason other than the fact that I could! I feel all fancy Victorian.**

* * *

It was not unusual for Holmes to receive correspondence from past clients, though it was usually a brief thank-you and nothing more after. Less often did we receive Christmas cards, though it was certainly not unheard of. This year, we received a card just three days before Christmas from the estate of the Baskervilles, addressed to both myself and to Holmes.

I took a break from my breakfast food to open the missive and read it aloud to my companion.

 _Dear Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,_

 _I hope you gentlemen are both well, and I wish you a merry Christmas._

 _Things have been well with me since your departure. Once the mystery was cleared up and Stapleton out of the picture, there has been a good deal less fear in my household and in the countryside as a whole, which has been a great relief. I am glad my role as baronet has been far less exciting than it was I first arrived! I have had time to set about freshening the Hall a bit more, and getting to know the neighbors a little better. Beryl and I have been seeing a deal more of each other; she is a charming woman, even after all of her husband's use and abuse._

 _I hope that sometime you two might come visit me again; both of you are always welcome here. Once again, take care and have a Merry Christmas!_

 _Sincerely,_

 _Henry Baskerville_

"What do you say, Holmes?" I said. "I should like to visit Sir Henry again sometime. And since he sent us a card, after having invited us in a previous thank-you letter, it seems to be more than an empty pleasantry."

Holmes only shrugged.

Well, then perhaps I would simply visit there myself sometime.


	18. Mysterious Card

**December 18: "A mystery Christmas card arrives." (from mrspencil)**

 **A/N: Set in 1891.**

* * *

The envelope was plain, and the card itself was unassuming; a simple print of two birds surrounded by sprigs of holly, and a small banner wishing me a Merry Christmas. The strangeness began with the fact that it was posted from the Continent and ended with the complete lack of signature or return address, or any indication of the identity of its sender. The handwriting I did not recognize.

 _Wishing you well,_ the card read. That was all.

"Mary, you don't happen to have any eccentric relations in Norway, do you?" I handed her the card and its envelope.

She frowned. "No, I don't. This is quite a mystery, isn't it?"

I smiled sadly. "Worthy of Holmes."

* * *

It was not until three Christmases later that I learned who the sender was. I had kept it, as I had a habit of keeping particularly meaningful or interesting Christmas cards and letters, and Holmes caught a glimpse of it lying upon my desk.

"Ah, there it is," said he, pointing to it. "I had hoped it made it to you. I only wished I could have told you the truth then."

"Or perhaps if I had deduced it?" I asked with an attempt at a grin.

He laid a hand on my shoulder. "With practice, perhaps one day you will have enough of a grasp of my methods that you could do so."

It was as close to a compliment as I could hope to receive from him.


	19. Christmas Dinner

**December 19: "Mary's first Christmas as Mrs. Watson." (from W. Y. Traveller)**

* * *

"Now John," said Mary, "shall we have Christmas dinner with just the two of us, or should we invite Holmes and Mrs. Hudson?"

John looked up from his newspaper. "Well, we can have dinner with just the two of us if that is what you want, dear, but it would be nice to invite Holmes, and I haven't seen Mrs. Hudson in what seems like an age."

Mary's heart sank a little. "Of course. I'll plan on dinner for four."

John frowned. "Only if you want to Mary. Is there something wrong?"

She smiled and shook her head. "No, no, I would love to have them; I'm just a little worried that Holmes will manage to mess it up somehow. Silly, I know."

"Knowing Holmes, maybe it's not so silly," he replied.

This did nothing to reassure Mary.

"I promise I'll keep him out of the kitchen," he added.

That did help a little. "And away from the Christmas tree."

"He only set it aflame once, and really it was more the fault of Mrs. Hudson's kitten than Holmes. But I will keep him a safe distance away all the same."

"And tell him not to frighten our maid by telling gruesome stories at the dinner table."

John sighed and rubbed a temple. "I promise I will do all in my power, dear."

"Good," Mary replied.

A couple weeks later, it was Christmas Eve, and the four were gathered around the table of the newly-married Watsons.

"This is a delicious turkey," said Mrs. Hudson.

"Well, I never could have done it without all of your advice," Mary replied, picking up her wine glass. "And thank you, Holmes, for bringing the wine. What variety did you say it was again?"

"I didn't," he replied.

Mary set her glass down and frowned, glancing to John, who only raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"Well?" said John, at length. "What sort of wine is it? I can see that it is red, of course, but more specifically? It is just a matter of curiosity, you understand. We do appreciate that you brought it."

"It is something of an experiment, I'll admit," said Holmes. "You see, the rate of fermentation of different fruits is sometimes essential to the solution of cases. The extent and manner of the fermentation has the potential of telling one as much about a given situation as the age and quantity of maggots on a corpse."

Mary shot John a look.

"Let's leave the corpses for later, Holmes," he said firmly. "For the women's sake?"

Holmes only shrugged, his mouth full of turkey.

Mrs. Hudson chimed in. "Instead, tell us about this wine, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes," said Holmes. "Well, I have been using one of the labs at St. Bart's to observe and document fruit fermentation, among other varieties of rotting, and one of the undergraduates with whom I was sharing lab space suggested that I try my hand at wine, since the grapes were already ready. I skimmed a couple books about the procedure, and this is the result."

Mary looked scandalized, but John and Mrs. Hudson only sighed and shared a glance of long-suffering camaraderie.

"Come now," said Holmes. "It isn't that bad." He took a drink, and winced. "Well, perhaps I had partaken of a bit too much homemade wine when I came to that conclusion."

The other three pushed their glasses away.

"Well," said John, "I think we have a bottle of Cabernet somewhere."

"I'll fetch it," said Mary. "John, can you bring out fresh glasses? I sent our maid home after the food was all made up."

"Of course," he replied, and the two returned moments later.

The rest of the dinner proceeded without incident, and soon all four were pleasantly full. They continued to chat for some time, until it was late enough Mrs. Hudson said she and Holmes had better leave them be (that is, after she offered twice to help with the washing-up; Mary politely declined the kind offer both times).

When the two of them were out the door, John chuckled. "Well, it could have been much worse. When it comes to Holmes, nothing surprises me anymore. But I'm still sorry about the wine, Mary dear."

"Next year," said Mary, "I will be providing all food and beverages."


	20. Mint!

**December 20: "Mint" (from zanganito)**

 **A/N: I was having too much fun and this kinda went completely out of the realm of plausibility and then a few miles farther. Enjoy?**

* * *

"We were looking for emerald green were we not?" asked Holmes distractedly as he and Watson browsed one of the many shops boldly advertising their products appealing to women.

"Not quite," Watson replied. "Mrs. Hudson said mint is her favorite color."

They walked by handkerchiefs and hair-ribbons, mittens and muffs, and all matter of clothing items.

"Jade, was it?" said Holmes, picking up a bonnet of that shade.

"Mint," Watson replied.

They tried another store, this time passing shelves stocked with cloth, yarn, thread, and all sorts of sewing items.

"Olive, right?" said Holmes, picking up a pincushion of that hue.

"No, mint," replied Watson impatiently.

Another shop was next, filled with glasses, silverware, and a wide variety of crockery items.

"Chartreuse, you said?"

"Lime, as I recall?"

The next shop featured jewelry.

"Seafoam green?"

"Turquoise?"

"Fern?"

Next was another sewing shop.

"Kelly green?"

"Shamrock?"

"Crocodile?"

"Basil?"

Now a shop with decorations and all matter of knick-knacks.

"Parakeet?"

"Harlequin?"

"Forest?"

"Moss?"

"Pine?"

At last, Watson had had enough. "Holmes, this is getting ridiculous," he fumed. "How is it that you have this encyclopedic knowledge regarding shades of green, but you cannot remember _mint_ even after I've repeated it a dozen times?"

Holmes suppressed a quiet chuckle. "Sorry, old fellow. I was only teasing." He picked up an elegant vase from a nearby display. "How is this for mint?"

Watson sighed. "It will do perfectly. Now let us get out of here."


	21. Christmas Cookies

**December 21: "Holmes suddenly realizes he needs to buy Christmas presents for too many people." (from Domina Temporis)**

 **A/N: Special thanks to my boyfriend for all his help! And a big thanks also to all of you who have been reading and reviewing; you guys are what makes this challenge so much fun year after year. :)**

 **Also, I realized after I had this written that "cookies" in the US are "biscuits" in the UK, but I liked the alliteration, so I left it in the title.**

* * *

It was not uncommon for me to work over the Christmas holiday; what need had I of idle merriment when there were mysteries to solve and criminals to apprehend? But those in that small social circle I had developed by the late 1890s insisted that I take a break. As such, I found myself invited to their Christmas parties and gatherings, and having mellowed with age and time away, I usually obliged.

This year, however, a pressing case had me working toward its completion until sundown on Christmas Eve, and it was with a sinking heart that I realized I had nothing purchased for Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, or Hopkins. However was I to manage all of that, with the shops about to close? I supposed I could always promise to give a gift to them later, and purchase something for each of them on the 26th, but I would feel very rude indeed not having a gift. And surely I, of all people, could manage in such a situation?

Well, provided Mrs. Hudson took pity on me, I would at least have access to the kitchen and materials with which to bake. Simple biscuits would have to do; after all, people seemed to like sugary treats at Christmas. I stopped to purchase flour and sugar, both in case Mrs. Hudson was low on them and to bribe her into letting me into her kitchen.

"Biscuits, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes," I replied impatiently. "Please, I will be careful. You may even stay to ensure the safety of your kitchen."

She sighed. "All right, then. I'll be checking in from time to time."

With that, I set to work. Baking was not foreign to me, but there were many disciplines with which I was more familiar and comfortable. Mrs. Hudson was patient and kind in her intermittent instructions.

"Careful not to over stir."

"No, no—not quite so much vanilla; a little goes a long way."

"You've rolled that dough too thin; I would roll it again a tad thicker."

Soon the baking process was well under way, and I prepared the frosting. Watson stopped by to see what I was doing, but I stopped him at the doorway, informing him that it was a surprise. I was clad in one of Mrs. Hudson's aprons, and he raised a wary eyebrow at my appearance.

"Would you care for a drink by the fire?" he asked.

"Tomorrow, certainly," I said, "but I find I am a little preoccupied tonight."

"All right, then. You have flour on your chin, old fellow," he said, and retired to bed.

The frosting I kept simple for the sake of time. My inner artist wished to work with more precision and add more detail, but the clock read half past nine, and Mrs. Hudson was eager for me to finish my work so she could retire to bed without worrying about what damage I was doing to her precious kitchen.

It was a tad past ten when I left biscuits out for the frosting to set and selected parcels I could put them into in the morning. Mrs. Hudson could at last retire. I thought of doing so myself, but I decided I would first write a label to put on each of the biscuit packages. I climbed the stairs the sitting room and sat down at my desk to write. I began a small slip of paper, and wrote:

To my dear Watson. I wish you many happy returns, and also to thank for putting up with my many eccentricities and annoying habits for—

I had run out of space. I set that paper aside, and began again on a larger one. The note ran even longer than I expected, but I supposed he would not mind. As I was writing, I found I was feeling especially warmhearted. Perhaps the simple domesticity of biscuit baking put me in a more warm, gentle frame of mind than was my wont, or perhaps what Watson called the "spirit of Christmas" was indeed upon me, but the missives for the others were of a similar stripe. It was near eleven when I had them completed to my satisfaction, and I retired to bed.

The next day, I put the biscuits in their packages and enclosed the notes. I Watson and Mrs. Hudson their gifts right away that morning, and to the Inspectors at the Christmas party that afternoon. Mycroft required a special stop, but he always did (he did not even leave his usual orbit for Christmas; one had to travel to him). Each of them reacted with much more gratitude than I recalled from prior years, but I did not take the time to properly analyze why.

Soon, it was evening, and I was joining Watson in that drink by the fire I had promised him.

"I've never received such thanks for gift-giving before," I remarked. "Perhaps I need to bake more often."

Watson only laughed. "If you wish to improve your baking, yes. But I believe the notes attached were what merited the most thanks. Friends do like to know that their efforts are noticed and appreciated."

Upon reflection, he was probably right. I crunched one of my slightly over-baked biscuits. There was definitely too much vanilla.


	22. Candle

**A/N: Prompt at the end…**

* * *

I awoke with a start in the dark, lying on a hard, cold surface with a splitting headache.

"Watson, are you awake?" Was it my imagination, or did I hear worry in my friend's voice?

"Holmes, where are we?"

"A root cellar, it seems," he said. "Don't move, old fellow; you've hit your head."

I refrained from muttering something rude; I had noticed. "But how did we—oh." I suddenly recalled how our quarry, Mr. Wollan, had caught us red-handed going through his stash of blackmail and had his henchmen grab us. "Wollan's cellar, do you suppose?"

"His or a close associate's," Holmes replied.

"Have you found any way out?" I asked.

"Not yet," he replied. "But we at least shall not starve; this place is filled with potatoes."

"Dehydration will kill us first," I pointed out.

"I know, old fellow," he replied. "I intend to break us out of here long before that. Now, for some light."

"I have a book of matches," I said.

"I already took them from your pocket," he replied.

"It is only half full," I said. "We must use them sparingly."

"I believe I have fashioned a candle," said Holmes. He struck a match, and suddenly his gaunt features and the dingy cellar around us was illuminated. He brought the flame down upon what appeared to be a thin slice of almond sticking out of one of the potatoes. To my surprise, the almond began to burn much like an ordinary candle.

"How on earth did you know that would work?" I asked.

"Almonds contain a high percentage of fat," Holmes replied. "As such, it ought to burn for quite some time. The potato is simply holding the almond upright and keeping it from setting the whole place ablaze."

"Brilliant," I replied."It is fortunate that I purchased those almonds at the train station. But we must conserve our oxygen as well."

"Yes indeed," Holmes replied. "But I suspect that will not be so difficult. Look—although the main door is out of reach without a ladder, there seems to be a small passage to the outside that we may be able to use."

"I don't see it," I said.

"Just there, concealed behind these crates." Holmes shoved several crates of potatoes aside and there was indeed a small door. It was locked, but that was hardly a barrier to Holmes. We would be out of there in no time.

* * *

 **December 22: "A secret passageway." (from Book girl fan)**

 **A/N: Apparently, you really can make a candle out of an almond and a potato. This story would have been posted before midnight, but I was too busy reading all about it. XD**

 **I was partially inspired by the notion of burning fruitcake soaked in plenty of alcohol for light. I apologize; I don't remember whose that was anymore. If you know, please tell me in a review or PM me so I can give credit where it is due!**

 **Update: Thank you, mrspencil, the story I'm thinking of is indeed** **Stutley Constable's December 9th response.**


	23. The Heiress

**December 23: "A diamond, a sophisticated diamond thief, and a silly rich heiress... what could go wrong?!" (from Ennui Enigma)**

* * *

It was the third time this week Lestrade found himself ringing the bell at 221b, completely out of his depth. Holmes recognized his familiar tread upon the stairs; he leapt to his feet, threw off his mouse-colored dressing gown, and rubbed his hands together. Watson, seeing his friend's excitement, marked the page in his yellow-backed novel and rose to greet their visitor.

"It's a knotty problem, and no mistake," said the Inspector as he entered, his knotted brows and dark-circled eyes betraying his state of health and mind.

"I perceive from your boots and your right thumb that it is a burglary in one of London's well-to-do areas," said Holmes, gesturing for the inspector to take a seat. "Tell me the facts."

"Miss Elizabeth Harrington had several expensive items of jewelry stolen after a party in her family's home last night. The young lady claims she is 'not certain' if she remembered to lock her safe, and is certain that a young man, James Norcutt, kept bringing her champagne and encouraging her to talk about her jewelry, particularly a necklace containing several large diamonds."

"James Norcutt, you say?" asked Watson. "Any relation to Henry Norcutt?"

"The famous diamond thief, now in prison?" said Lestrade. "Oh yes, James is his son."

"Intriguing," said Holmes. "So Miss Harrington claims the son of a diamond thief stole her jewelry. Where is this safe kept?"

"In her bedroom," said Lestrade. "She slept deeply, and didn't hear a sound—which is no wonder, given the amount of champagne she purportedly drank. She awoke around three in the morning, and noticed the safe was left ajar and much of its contents missing. She awakened the whole household, and the police were called almost immediately."

That explains the circles under his eyes, thought Watson.

"Mrs. Harrington was the only one more frantic about the whole thing than her daughter," continued Lestrade, rubbing a temple. "We practically had to sedate her. But with the poor woman's husband on his deathbed, we have done our best to be understanding."

"A sudden illness?" asked Watson.

"Largely old age, I think," said Lestrade. "Mr. Harrington is, if you will pardon my saying so, one of those chaps with great financial means who married a woman far younger than himself. He had a wife before, but she died young and they had no children. But, regardless, a least this crisis seems to have united mother and daughter, who have purportedly not been seeing eye to eye for some weeks."

"Returning to young Mr. Norcutt," said Holmes. "Was he a friend of the Harringtons?"

Lestrade shrugged. "He was invited, was he not? But he was not very close to them, as I understand the situation. It was a large party, with many attendees."

"And what of her room? Any signs of forced entry?"

Lestrade shook his head. "It was not her custom to lock her bedroom door, and as I said, she claims she does not recall for sure if she locked her safe or not before retiring. All the champagne, like as not."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "And it would not have been difficult for a party attendee to hide in such a large house until after everyone had retired, and then sneak into the girl's room to take what he wished?"

"No, it likely would not. The house is a large one, with a number of rooms hardly used."

"That is an explanation that covers the facts," said Holmes. "But you say it is a knotty problem; you are not satisfied with this explanation?"

Lestrade shook his head. "It just seems a little too obvious, the son of a diamond thief stealing jewelry from a young lady. I fear Mr. Noructt is being framed. He seems an honest lad; he has absolutely no criminal record, and his family claims he has had no contact with his father since he was put in prison two years ago. He also has a fair alibi; we found a cab driver who swears up and down he took the lad to his home at a quarter to midnight, an hour before Miss Harrington retired. But she claims he could have returned in secret, and so young Mr. Noructt is in custody as we speak; his home is being searched and his family, friends, and acquaintances questioned. But could it not have easily been another party attendee, who overheard Mr. Norcutt and Miss Harrington discussing her jewels? And now our list of suspects is dozens of people long!" He pulled out a list of names.

Watson raised his eyebrows, but Holmes did not even spare a glance at the list.

"No, I do not think we need question every one of them," said he. "In fact, this is very nearly a case I can solve from this chair. I have a question for the young lady, so I may be certain of my conclusions. Will you bring us to her?"

"Of course," said Lestrade, and they took a cab to the Harrington's.

Once they had gone through all the necessary formalities, and the three were seated in a small parlor with the young woman, Holmes spoke.

"I have only one question for you," said he. "Do you swear you will answer honestly?"

Her eyes were wide. "Yes, of course."

"Is John Harrington really your father?"

Her face went white as a sheet. "No," she whispered. "How did you know?"

"I did not know, but I suspected," Holmes replied. "The thought first crossed my mind when I learned that Mr. Harringon had only one child, and by his second wife: a young and likely beautiful woman. It is, if you will forgive my saying so, the sort of situation in which it would not surprise me to learn that she…took a fancy to a man nearer her age than her husband. Perhaps her husband was even incapable of having children; if so, the young woman certainly could not be his."

"It seems a tenuous theory," said Watson. "Even knowing now that you are right."

They glanced to Miss Harrington, who nodded, staring at the floor. "Regardless of whether my father could or could not have a child, he didn't. My mother told me just a week ago, when Father had just gotten very sick, and we had another fight."

"The feud with your mother was my next clue," said Holmes. "Based on my knowledge of typical practice with wills, I suspected that Mr. Harrington wrote his will long enough ago that Miss Harrington was not in the will by name, but rather it stated that the inheritance would be split between his wife and any living descendants. Armed with the knowledge that her daughter is not really Mr. Harrington's biological descendant, Mrs. Harrington might easily keep her from receiving any inheritance at all, were she so cruel. Is this so?"

Miss Harrington nodded. "I'm afraid so. I thought this jewelry theft stunt would lead her to feel sorry for me, and we could put aside our differences… at least until I receive my share. I know it sounds horrible, but Father has been in poor health for so long, and if Mother keeps all of the money from me, I don't know what I will do. I know it seems unbelievable that she wold reveal she had an affair just to keep me from my inheritance, but you do not know my mother. She can be very, very spiteful."

"Did your plan work?" asked Holmes. "Lestrade claims you and your mother are on better terms now."

Miss Harrington nodded. "She had some of her favorite jewelry stolen when she was near my age, and she never thought her parents did enough to try to recover them, so she saw this as an opportunity to give me something she never had. Thinking of me in terms of herself always seems to put her in a more charitable frame of mind."

"But, wait—all the champagne," said Lestrade. "And how on earth did you manage to think up that whole story you told me this morning?"

She smiled. "Oh, after the first glass, I drank tonic water out of champagne glasses and everyone else had drunk enough not to notice. I told you that Norcutt kept bringing me drinks, but really I asked for as many for the two of us as he did, and my maid ensured that I always got the tonic water and he the real champagne. I just had to act a little silly and clumsy and no one suspected a thing. Norcutt himself thought I was just a tipsy soon-to-be heiress. And my plot was not difficult to hatch, once I saw that Mother was inviting Mary Norcutt, and her son James. It really would be easy to hide in our house, as large as it is, and sneak around after all of us were in bed. I rarely lock my room, and forgetting to lock a safe is exactly the sort of thing a silly drunk girl would do."

There was a knock at the door. "I'm sorry to disturb you," said the voice outside, "but I have some very important news."

"One moment," said Holmes. He turned quickly to Miss Harrington, and spoke in a low voice. "Will you swear to reveal what you did as soon as you receive your inheritance, so that we may free Mr. Norcutt from these false accusations? I will protect you from legal consequences to the furthest extent possible."

"Of course," she replied. "I feel sorry for framing him that way, but it was the only solution I could devise."

"You must swear you will confess to it," said Lestrade uneasily. "As a member of the law enforcement, I could lose my position for making such an exception as this."

"I swear to it," she replied solemnly.

"Now come in," said Holmes.

A somber butler entered. "I am sorry Miss Harrington," he said, "but your father just passed away in his sleep."

"We will leave you for now," said Holmes, rising. Uneasily, the three men took their leave.

Fortunately, Miss Harrington was as good as her word, for a week later (just half an hour after legally inheriting half of Mr. Harrington's estate), she took a carriage to Scotland Yard and formally confessed to Lestrade. Mr. James Norcutt was released almost immediately, and Holmes did all in his power to ensure that the young woman would serve no time for what she did. In the end, she paid a sizable fine, but that was all, and the rest of the inheritance she kept.

"It was all fairly commonplace," remarked Holmes over a pipe the evening after the trial was completed.

"It seemed remarkable to me," Watson replied. "A diamond necklace, the son of a diamond thief, a spiteful mother, and a crafty heiress… and in the end, it turned out all right!"

* * *

 **A/N: So maybe it's weird to host a fancy house party when your husband is on his deathbed, but I figure that's something a wealthy and vain Victorian woman might do. And apologies to Lestrade for putting his job on the line; it just sort of happened. But like Watson said, it turned out all right!**

 **Also, for those of you who enjoyed the almond potato candle story, I made one yesterday! You'll only get a couple minutes of light out of it, and it does not smell nice, but I can confirm that it really does work.**


	24. Forever

**December 24: "Forever" (from BookRookie12)**

 **A/N: A short, silly one today, so I have time to do some catch-up reading too. Wishing all who observe it a wonderful Christmas Eve!**

* * *

"Holmes," said Watson one evening. "Have you always known you wanted to be a detective?"

Holmes glanced up from his writing (a monograph about the analysis of stains at a crime scene). "Not exactly," he replied. "It was not until my university days that my path became clear to me. But I always knew I would require some blend of art and science to be content with my work."

Watson nodded. "Of course."

At length, Holmes spoke again. "Mycroft asked me a similar question earlier this week."

Watson raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, he asked me, 'Have you always known you wanted to be a pain in my ass?'"

Watson chuckled. "Have you?"

Holmes grinned. "I've known it forever."


	25. Christmas!

**December 25: "Try a rhyme or song and alter it to make it fit Holmesian themes. If you need inspiration, try adapting a nursery rhyme." (from Ennui Enigma)**

* * *

On the twelfth day of Christmas

My flatmate gave to me:

Twelve beakers boiling,

Eleven clients calling,

Ten songs a-playing,

Nine urchins cheering,

Eight pipes a-smoking,

Seven donkeys braying,

Six clues for looking,

Five murderers!

Four calling cards,

Three French wines,

Two monographs,

And malodorous smells of chemistry!

* * *

 **A/N: Verse seven is a shout-out to Ennui Enigma's donkey of chapters 8, 18, and 24. I have grown very fond of him. Merry Christmas, everyone!**


	26. A Work of Art

**December 26: "Worker" (from zanganito)**

 **A/N: This one is silly, and only sort of fits the prompt, but this OC of mine has been requested by my sister all December, so it was time to bring him back…**

 **The one…**

 **The only…**

* * *

"Sockball!"

Mrs. Hudson's voice rang out across the flat. She put her hands on her hips and muttered, "Where has that kitten gotten off to this time?"

A quiet _meow_ drifted down the kitchen stairs.

The good landlady bustled up the stairs to see the orange kitten sitting on 's desk. As she approached, she noted that the creature was sitting on his latest manuscript, inkwell dangerously near the edge of the table. Sockball reached a paw around, and to her surprise, dipped it carefully in the inkwell and began to litter the papers on his desk with tiny prints.

Mrs. Hudson gave a cry, ran the last two steps to the desk, and bundled the kitten into her arms, where it smeared the remainder of the ink on her apron. She looked down at the desk, and groaned. _It could be worse,_ she thought. _At least his artistic works are limited to the papers and do not extend to the furniture._

It was at that moment she heard the Doctor's tread on the stairs as he returned from his bedroom. A moment later, he entered the sitting room, a reference book in hand.

"I am so sorry, Dr. Watson," she said before he even noticed the mess. "I will keep better track of him in the future."

"What are you—oh, I see," he said with a chuckle. "Please do, but this is rather amusing. I was just writing up the case Holmes finished a couple weeks ago, the one with the escaped lion? And now these tiny prints are all over it. I think that perhaps I should frame this."

"Well, I shall still keep him away from your desk in the future."

"And I shall keep my inkwell stopped up if I'm stepping away from my desk," he returned, "so as not to tempt Sockball to another attempt at co-writing. If he keeps this work up, I would have to credit him in the _Strand!_ "

Sockball perched on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder and meowed.


	27. A Fellow Writer

**December 27: "WWI" (from Book girl fan)**

 **A/N: Thanks once again to my boyfriend for allowing me to pick his brain on this one!**

 **An alternative idea was having Watson meet a young Adolf Hitler (feel free to steal that plot bunny and write it!) but what I wrote instead is much less dark**.

* * *

It was late October of 1916 when a young soldier, one of the countless lads struck with trench fever, asked me what my name was.

"Dr. John Watson," I replied.

He sat up a little straighter in his cot. "You're Dr. Watson?" he said. "Who wrote all about Sherlock Holmes in the Strand?"

It was usually Holmes who was regarded with such awe (as it well should be), but I cannot deny that I was pleased to be recognized. "The very same," I replied.

The young man grinned. "Well, that is wonderful. I'm glad to meet you."

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Ronald Tolkien," he replied.

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance as well," I said.

"You know, I think I shall be doing some writing of my own when I get back home," said Tolkien. "But, it's of a different nature than yours. I love languages, and faerie stories, you see. I don't at all believe they should only be for children." He flushed. "Sorry—perhaps you have other patients to attend."

"No, no, I have a free moment," I replied. "You should know I enjoy a fantastic story as much as anybody. I've just never been able to write anything of that sort that seemed worth publishing. There is something safe about writing things that really happened, and being friends with Sherlock Holmes made that easy indeed. There have been a few minor alterations here or there, names and locations changed for privacy and the like, but the point stands. I have great respect for writers of the fantastical, and I wish you well in your literary pursuits."

Tolkien beamed. "Thank you very much, Doctor."

* * *

 **A/N: Not sure how bad trench fever is (I only know it got Tolkien sent home from the war in pretty short order) so this might be completely implausible, but hey, it made my heart happy.**

 **And one final note: I'm getting my wisdom teeth out tomorrow, so it's likely I'll fall behind on the reading and writing. But I'll be back as soon as I'm feeling up to it!**


	28. Sockball Again!

**A/N: Good news—my wisdom teeth recovery is going surprisingly well!**

 **December 28: "The cat moved in on Friday." (from Stutley Constable)**

* * *

Watson set down his newspaper. "He was a gift, Holmes," he said impatiently.

"I do not want a cat," said Holmes. "I have never wanted a cat."

"Why can you not put the matter to rest?" Watson sighed. "Give it away, if nothing else."

Holmes shook his head. "Mrs. Hudson has already become far too attached to it."

"But the cat just moved in on Friday," said Watson. "Surely…"

The sound of Mrs. Hudson cooing at the kitten drifted up the stairs.

"I know," said Holmes. _"Women,"_ he added with an eyeroll.

Watson did not say so, but he had also become rather attached to the orange kitten named Sockball, and really did not know what Holmes had against the creature.


	29. Burned

**December 29: "Fireplace" (from W. Y. Traveller)**

* * *

"Another one?" asked Holmes, rising from his chair almost before Lestrade had entered the room.

The Inspector nodded, breathing heavily, and gestured for Holmes and Watson to follow. Watson set down his cup of tea and the three of them headed for the door.

It was the fourth corpse that week. Each one was the same: burned beyond recognition and left lying by a fireplace, wearing a red fur hat with a white band across the brim and a white, puffy ball at the tip, a collection of macabre Father Christmases.

"Another in the East End?" asked Holmes, as they descended the stairs.

"No," Lestrade returned, "only a few blocks from here, in the direction of Hyde Park."

Watson gave a curt nod.

The murders were making for a truly dark December, but for Holmes, the game was afoot!

* * *

 **A/N: Here I am sitting by a very pleasant fireplace (woodburner, technically), but the first thing that came to mind when I read this prompt was this lyric from A Very Potter Musical— "Quirrell: Sipping tea by the fire is swell / Voldemort: Pushing people in is fun as well!"**

 **I don't know if that makes what happened here any better, but it's what was happening in my brain…**


	30. A Sinister Plot

**December 30: "Dressing gown" (from W. Y. Traveller)**

 **A/N: Apologies in advance; this devolved quickly into crack-fic. Enjoy?**

* * *

"Watson! Have you seen my dressing gown?" Holmes' strident voice rang out across the flat.

With a sigh, Watson set down the papers he had been organizing at Holmes' request. He glanced about the sitting room, but his flatmate's mouse-colored dressing gown was nowhere in sight. Rising to his feet, he made his way to Holmes' bedroom door and knocked once. "I don't see your dressing gown here. I couldn't say what's become of it." He bit his tongue to prevent adding, _perhaps as the detective, you ought to be the one looking?_

Holmes threw open the door and emerged from his bedroom in his shirtsleeves, hair standing up in odd directions, a perfect picture of dishevelment and irritation. "Damn and blast," said he. "I need that dressing gown."

 _A foul mood_ _indeed_ , thought Watson.

"Someone has stolen it, Watson."

"Your dressing gown?"

"My dressing gown." He gestured wildly.

Mrs. Hudson entered the sitting room with the tea tray. "Why would someone steal your dressing gown?" she asked.

"I do not know," Holmes replied.

"Probably for some sinister purpose," Watson chimed in before he could stop himself.

Lestrade entered the sitting room unannounced. "What's all this about a dressing gown?"

"It's missing," said Holmes.

"Oh dear," said Lestrade.

"Indeed," replied Holmes. "I have no doubt it is suffering most cruelly at the hands of one of my many enemies."

* * *

Somewhere else in London, there was a maniacal laugh. It came from Moriarty, who was wearing Holmes' dressing gown.

"It suits you," said Moran.

Moriarty waved him off. "Dispense with the empty flattery, Colonel. My wearing of this dressing gown is purely metaphorical."

"Metaphorical?" Moran frowned.

"Metaphorical," Moriarty repeated. He gestured wildly.

A man entered the study with a telegram. "Why would you wear a dressing gown metaphorically?"

"Probably for some sinister purpose," Moran chimed in before he could stop himself.

Moriarty smiled a sinister smile. "By wearing this old, worn, grey dressing gown, I am one step closer to wearing down Holmes himself."

"And making him old and grey?" asked Moran.

Moriarty shrugged. "If you wish to carry the metaphor so far." He tugged on the gown, which dragged on the ground. It was made for a much taller man. "Well, I have no use for this now."

"Will we burn it?" asked Moran.

Moriarty picked up the telegram where the man left it on his desk. "No," he said at length. "We shall return it."

"Return it?"

"Return it."

"But Professor, why should we return it?"

"As a distraction," Moriarty replied.

"A distraction from what?"

"A most sinister plot," Moriarty replied, shrugging off the dressing gown. "Which I will distract Holmes from by returning his dressing gown with a sinister note."

"Do you think he will be so easily preoccupied?"

"Oh, the sinister note will include at least three cyphers," said Moriarty. "Three sinister cyphers, which ought to keep him distracted long enough."

Moriarty and Moran shared a maniacal laugh and a sinister smile.


	31. 221B

**December 31: "Farewell" (from BookRookie12)**

 **A/N: Today's entry is titled "221B" in honor of Vincent Starrett's poem of the same name.**

* * *

"Well, I suppose this is farewell, old fellow," said Holmes, rising from his seat and clapping Watson on the back. It was very late in the evening, nearly all of the guests having left the Watson's wedding reception.

Watson laughed as he clambered to his feet as well. "Our honeymoon is only a week long, Holmes. Mary and I shall be back to London in no time."

The detective nodded. "I know that," he said, "and I wish you well as you settle into your married life."

Watson frowned. There was a barely disguised hint of melancholy in his friend's tone.

"You think that being a married man will keep me from accompanying you on cases?" said Watson.

"Well, I could not expect you to leave Miss—Mrs. Watson at a moment's notice to go chasing down criminals with me," said Holmes. "And as you know, I am not a man in the habit of making social calls. As such, I expect we will see very little of one another from now on."

Watson shook his head and smiled sadly. "You're right that things will be different, but you are still my friend. I won't so often be able to rush off at a moment's notice with a wife and a practice to tend to, but I certainly won't let you have all of the fun without me."

Holmes' face broke into a momentary full grin. "Well then," said he. "I suppose this is, rather than farewell, an 'until we meet again'?"

"Until we meet again," Watson agreed.

From where they stood a few feet away, Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Watson shared a knowing smile. They could hardly imagine what London would be like without the adventures of Holmes and Watson.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you to everyone who has kept up with my stories this month (especially those who followed, favorited, or reviewed) and to Hades Lord of the Dead for facilitating this challenge for us year after year!**

 **For anyone interested, I wanted to let you know that I'm finishing up my last edits on a new novel-length Holmes story (my second ever)! It will be titled _The Wall Lake Mystery_ , and my plan is to begin posting by mid-January.**

 **Thanks again for a great December, and I'm wishing you all a wonderful New Year!**


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